“Relax,” she said. “I’m off to tea before the waiter gives away my table.”
She headed over to the sunny lawn, and Owen watched her a moment, then said to Jason, “Linc did well today. He’s got guts. If you’ll excuse me…”
“Of course. Thank you for showing an interest in Linc.” Jason made a face. “Abigail isn’t herself. I think something happened.”
Owen nodded. “On my way.”
Jason returned to his chair, watching Owen sit across from Abigail at one of the sturdy wooden lawn tables. Ellis could feel his brother’s relief. He’d managed to get rid of both his sweaty son and Abigail before his guests arrived.
Ellis noticed a well-dressed couple in their fifties walk out onto the terrace.
The potential buyers, he thought. Did they have the look of garden lovers?
It doesn’t matter.
He’d dig up the plants that were most special to him and plant them at his new place, or in his gardens at his main house in Washington.
The rest of the plants—what did he care?
“Here they are,” Jason said, then turned to his younger brother. “Ellis? You’ll be okay, won’t you?”
He nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m with you on this deal, Jason. All the way.”
He could see his brother’s relief. “I knew you would be.”
Grace, Ellis noticed, seemed hardly to notice what her father and uncle were saying, her attention fixed instead on Owen and Abigail at their table, as if they might be talking about her, as if they held the keys to her future. Ellis reached across the table and took her hand. “It’ll all work out, Grace.”
“Yes.” She pulled her gaze from the table out on the lawn and managed a quick, fake smile. “Of course it will. I’m letting this background check get to me, and I know it shouldn’t. I just feel so exposed.”
“And you’re worried about Abigail.”
“Yes.” She nodded, as if to convince herself. “Aren’t we all?”
“Maybe Owen can find out if anything’s happened. In the meantime, just try to relax and enjoy lunch.”
By the time their lunch guests got to their table, Grace was on her feet, smiling, and Ellis knew he’d succeeded. His niece would sail through the background check—no matter what Abigail Browning was up to, and the constant reminder her presence was of a man Grace had wanted for herself.
CHAPTER 14
Abigail broke open a browned, steaming popover, aware of Owen’s probing gaze on her. “Do you have my number here in Maine?” she asked him.
“Your phone number? Of course. It’s the same number it’s always been. Why?”
“Because I had a strange call this morning. It was on the heels of another strange call Saturday night.”
Owen lifted a popover out of the basket her waiter had brought and set it on his plate. But he had no visible reaction to what she’d just told him. “First things first,” he said. “I didn’t call you on Saturday or this morning.”
“Could someone have used your phone?”
“I doubt it, but if you’d told me Sean and Ian Alden would manage to sneak out a window without my knowing, I’d have said that was impossible. Do you have any reason to believe the calls were made from my house?”
“None.”
She dipped her knife into the softened butter, which she spread liberally on one half of her popover. Owen’s steady calm did not have a soothing effect on her. She had an urge to reach across the table and slather butter on his popover, just to penetrate his self-control. She could dump a tub of strawberry jam in his lap. Grab him by the shoulders and kiss him. Why the hell not?
“Can you tell me about these calls?”
She nodded. “Lieutenant Beeler gave the okay to tell you. He’s not giving a press conference or anything, but you deserve to know, in case this guy’s a threat. If you value your quiet spot on the water, you’ll want to keep the information to yourself.” She reached for the strawberry jam. “FBI Director’s widowed cop daughter gets anonymous tips—well, you can imagine the media reaction.”
“I can, indeed. And unleashing reporters out here would only muddy the waters of finding this caller.”
“Correct,” she said, then gave him a rundown of the two calls. When she finished, she ate a piece of her popover and gazed out at Jordan Pond, a lone bird of some kind soaring overhead. A hawk? She didn’t know her birds that well. Finally, she looked back at Owen. “I know you’re not the caller. I don’t think you could disguise that mix of Boston and Texas in your voice.”
But he didn’t smile, his gray eyes narrowed, intense. “Do you think it’s Mattie?”
“Lou and Doyle are talking to him. So far, there’s no reason to believe it’s him—or anyone on the island.”
“What are you doing out here?” Owen asked.